“It’s not a tune that ever you heard before,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “But let you speak out now if you’re not ashamed of it, and tell me what tune it is.”
“It’s the ‘Battle March of King Malachi the Brave,’” said Dr. O’Grady, “the same that he played when he was driving the English out of Ireland. And you can’t possibly have heard it before because the manuscript of it was only dug up the other day at Tara, and this is the first time it’s ever been played publicly in the west of Ireland.”
“There now, Thady,” said Doyle, “didn’t I tell you all along that you’d nothing to do only to ask the doctor?”
“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “You may say what you like about the Hill of Tara, but I’ve heard that tune.”
“It’s just possible,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Mr. Billing may have whistled it while he was here. I believe the people of Bolivia are fond of it. They learned it, of course, from General John Regan. He may have heard it from his grandmother. It’s wonderful how long music survives among the people long after the regular professional musicians have forgotten all about it. But I mustn’t interrupt you any more, Thady. You were just making a speech about the Lord-Lieutenant. Perhaps you have finished what you were saying. As well as I recollect we were just settling about the statue.”
“Major Kent was after saying,” said Father McCor-mack, “that we couldn’t get a statue in the time.”
“My friend Mr. Doyle,” said Dr. O’Grady, “has a proposal to lay before the meeting. Where’s that card, Doyle, that you showed me last week?”
Doyle drew a bundle of grimy papers from his breast pocket and went through them slowly. One, which appeared to be a letter written on business paper, he laid on the table in front of him. At the bottom of the bundle he came on a large card. He handed this to Father McCormack. The printing on it was done in Curiously shaped letters, evidently artistic in intention, with a tendency towards the ecclesiastical. Round the outside of the card was a deep border of black, as if the owner of it were in mourning for a near relative.
Father McCormack looked at it dubiously.